


Sherrinford

by macgyvershe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Holmes, Holmes Brothers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, improper mental health care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macgyvershe/pseuds/macgyvershe
Summary: Who is Sherrinford? What is his agenda? How will he affect John and Sherlock. Greg knows Sherrinford and it isn't good.





	1. Fate will have her way with you

**Author's Note:**

> Was reading a meta that posited that Sherrinford was a darker side of Sherlock. This story popped up. This is an AU work of fiction. Any one with mental health issues should seek professional help, always. Do not try this at home, dear reader.

John Watson is smart, top of his class smart, street smart; make it on your own smart and in service of his Queen and Country smart. A trauma surgeon, one of the best, his small stature belied his standing with his men. You got saved with Capt’n Watson was involved. No matter how shitty the situation, no matter how desperate and dire, bulldog Watson would barrel his way in gun blazing, toughing things out. His men loved him, honored him and knew, just knew that he always make things better. Some said he could fix a rainy day, and it did rain bloody bullets in bloody Afghanistan.

The shot that killed John had stopped his heart. His gallant heart was shocked by blood loss and severe trauma to his shoulder. Luckily for him. several of his nurses were with him and they were determined that Captain John Watson wasn’t going to die on their watch. They made his heart beat again and bundled him up for flight back to base camp. Unfortunately, he contracted a very virulent strain of bacterial infection. The infection was not obliterated by a normal run of antibiotics; John Watson’s life was nearly forfeited because of a battle that he couldn’t fight on his own. Different drugs were administered as John battled on; his body weakened and his mind ravaged by a debilitating fever. A fever that signaled his body was trying desperately to save his life, but a fever nearly took his life.

When, finally, the battleground that is his body found release from the siege, the damage had been done. His left hand shook uncontrollably. Who would want a surgeon with a shaking dominate left hand? There is a weakness and severe pain in his right leg. They send him home, medical discharge. No shame in that, a stipend to live off, a bedsit until he can get himself sorted, but he never did.

He couldn’t leave London, he loved her too dearly. He picked up a few hours locum here and there at clinics, he applied for a teaching position so he could to make ends meet. He kept his little bedsit and he worked through the nightmares and started the blog, listened to the psychologist and tried like hell to be okay.

(-_-)

Sherlock had been a quiet, contemplative child. Intense. Obstinate. Frighteningly emotional. His older brother and mother had worried about this. The tantrums, the long silences, the self neglect that followed.

As a coping mechanism, Redbeard had become his best buddy. His eternal friend, never to leave his side. Everything is good. Great even. Alas, the dog was not long for this world. Upon his death, Sherlock’s emotionality turned even more morose. More tentatively bizarre. 

Another animal is broached, but the fact that they had lied to him about the animal being sent away to live with the original owner (not a good idea to begin with) had made that option unusable when he deduced the truth.

It is then that Sherlock developed a secret friend. Someone that he didn’t share with any other living being. What they do not know, they can not touch or destroy. 

Sherrinford had been the name given to the child just before Sherlock. He was still born. Sherrinford Thomas Neart Holmes. Unknown to his family. Sherrinford become the perfect companion. Sherrinford is at first quite companionable. Social. Caring. By turns, he became something of an outcast. A shite disturber. Sherlock liked that about him. No rules applied to him. No one could or would ever chastise him for the ‘bad’ things he did. Sherlock would happliy take the blame for any wrong doing. 

They were the perfect pair; the trying-to-fit-in Sherlock and the carelessly noncompliant Sherrinford. Though Sherrinford did start to take on more and more devious traits through boarding school and on into the chambers at Uni. 

The two got into all kinds of trouble. Then they found the drugs thing. It is just a passing phase for Sherlock; a recurring activity for Sherrinford.

Back and forth they battled over what is usage and what is abuse. Need versus desire.

All that changed when a certain John Watson limped into view.

 _{Come on, this is your military kink going overboard.}_ Sherrinford admonished him. _{Don’t let him fool you. He’s no better than the rest.}_

But to Sherrinford’s mortification, the ex captain is something very special. Something bloody brilliant and sublime.

Sherrinford is sequestered to the fringe territories of the Mind Palace. His bad traits no longer tolerated. No longer amusing or shocking. He festers like an open wound. Bridled and leashed like some wayward hound. All because of John Watson. All because Sherlock’s new temporate life style revolved around John. So common a name for so uncommon a person.

Sherrinford began to rankle and chaff at the loss of his number one fan. His companion in all things criminal. Sherlock is his. His, long before John is on the scene. Sherlock would be his again. A plan began to form in his devious mind. Connecting dots, correlating data. Sherrinford is as good at plotting and planning as Sherlock. He’s deucedly good at every damn thing he puts his mind to. Right now he wants his Sherlock back. He wants stage center in the Mind Palace. He wants John Watson gone. Permanently.

(-_-)

John is rifling through the dirty linen bin. Looking for a lost item. Probably tucked into a pocket. 

“Ouch! Damn it.” John pulls his hand away quick at the sharp pain. Gingerly now he moves the clothing around to find, a syringe. An empty used syringe. 

“Sherlock!” The command in John’s voice isn’t lost on his flatmate and he comes running.

“What the hell is this?” John demands as he lifts the syringe up for Sherlock’s viewing pleasure.

“You know what it is John. That much is obvious. The question is who put it there? Use your head, if I were using. Would I be so careless as to leave damnable evidence within easy reach?”

Sherlock doesn’t seem perturbed at all by the discovery. John has no reason to question his truthfulness. _Who, indeed would be so careless?_ John thinks.

John discards the sharp. Sherlock on the other hand, retrieves the item in question and lifts the prints off the syringe. There are only one set of prints. John had picked the syringe up by the plunger and left no viable prints. 

Sherlock examined the prints several times. To make sure. To be absolutely sure. They were his prints on the damnable syringe. Quickly, he examined the contents of the syringe. Going deathly pale when the contents proved to be a familiar one.

(-_-)

Sherlock went to the roof of 221B. He sat on the heavy wooden chair he’d place up there long ago. Some place to sit while he contemplated cases and clues. 

“I know you put the syringe there. You could have killed John, Sherrinford.” He said the name with contempt now. With anger that borders on rage.

 _{Brother.}_ Sherrinford’s baritone is just a tad different from Sherlock’s. _{So nice of you to call, so very good to hear from you. You arse!}_

“What the hell are you playing at? I’ve told you that John Watson is off limits. Full Stop. You do anything to...”

 _{And what will you do, brother mine? Demote me, banish me to the nether regions?}_ Sherrinford stands before his younger brother. His stance and coloring almost the same. What differentiated him was his face; especially around the mouth and eyes. Were Sherlock had crinkles from laughter and natural aging, Sherrinford’s eyes and mouth were surrounded by wrinkles of a body ill used. The drugs and the degradation of time, a life without mirth or sunshine left Sherrinford more of a shadow Holmes. Someone more accustomed to the seedier side of living, the downward spiral of inevitable decay.

“What is it you want?” Sherlock is swift and to the point.

 _{I want the bad old days. The me and you. The getting fucked up and fucking up, without a care. That is what I want.}_ Sherrinford’s smile is the personification of his what the hell attitude. 

“Not going to happen. Not now. Not ever.” Sherlock pledges.

Sherrinford sniffs. _{We’ll see about that.}_ He says with the tilt of his head as his nearly black eyes stare into Sherlock’s grey/blue/gold ones.

Sherlock erupts from his chair. At ready to fight the dark shade that is Sherrinford. The shade merely evaporates leaving behind a lingering laughter that will haunt his counter part for the rest of the week.

Sherlock sits back in his chair. What to do when your dark alter ego wants to kill your best friend? Sherlock realizes, not for the first time, that John means more to him than just a friend. So very much more.

“I created you so very long ago. I can destroy you as I wish.” Speaking to the night air, Sherlock is confident that this can be done. He must formulate a plan. Set a trap. Sherrinford was born in the halls of the Mind Palace. Well, it was more of a Mind Museum to begin with. So that is where his end must come.

(-_-)

John is not an idiot. He knows that something is up. The syringe was a real surprise. Sherlock would never be so idiotic as to leave something like that lying around. He was too clever by far. So who would do that? And why? John took extra care in handling items around the house. Security became an issue. Making sure to lock up when they left the flat. Window and doors and even the attic trap door. If someone was getting in, then he would make sure it wasn’t easy.

After racking his brain for several hours. He thought about talking with Greg. Yeah, Greg had known Sherlock longer than he had. Making an appointment to stop by the Yard, without Sherlock in tow. Gathering data might shed some light on this puzzle.

(-_-)

“John, good to see you. I see you’ve hit the new coffee bar. Have a seat. You said you needed help?” Lestrade sat back in his comfy chair and munched a pastry that looked decadent with an exaggerated amount of sprinkles littering its sugary surface.

“I need to talk to you about Sherlock.” John crossed his legs settled into the not too comfortable chair and sipped his really great coffee. 

“Oh god, what’s he done now? Nothing with body parts I hope?” Lestrade sat forward focusing completely on John.

“I found a used syringe in the hamper today.” John is visibly distraught. “Sherlock said it wasn’t his and I believe him. Someone put it there, hoping that I would blame him. Trying to drive us apart with doubt.”

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade abandoned his pastry on the desk. Sitting back he took a huge swig of his coffee. “I thought we were finished with this bull shite.”

“Tell me.” John encourages. “Who is doing this?” John is glad that Greg has answers for him.

Greg looks deeply into his coffee cup. Finally, he gazes up into John’s eyes. “I’m glad you are sitting down mate.” 

John is shaken. Greg isn’t prone to hyperbole.


	2. The wreckage of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out about Sherlock's past. Plans are made. Will a trap work?

“You know that there have been drug issues with Sherlock in the past, don’t you?” Lestrade took a cleansing breath and griped his coffee mug a bit tighter.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know, but he’s clean Greg. I’d know if he were using wouldn’t I?” 

“You’d know if he were using, yes. The problem being that...” Greg hesitated. Looking a bit lost and terribly uncomfortable.

“Come on, Greg. Spit it out. Nothings as bad as you imagine.” John is smiling. That warm, friendly smile that just fills you up.

“There are actually two Sherlock’s. Had a bit of a psychotic break when he was younger. His family got him help, but you know how smart he is? They never quite figured out...diagnosed what the problem was. Sherlock was the third Holmes son. A still birth happened before he was born.”

“I don’t see how that figures in?” John is leaning into Greg. His focus sharp on the D.I.’s words.

“It’s believed that when he was very young, Sherlock sort of made Sherrinford his imaginary friend.” Greg said quickly, hoping the words didn’t sound too crazy. “The older brother was Sherrinford Thomas Neart Holmes.”

“An imaginary friend that never went away.” John sat back, his thoughts chaotic and unreadable.

“Yes, an older, reckless and ruthless brother who was never going to last too long in the real world. Someone to break all the rules, someone to admire and emulate.” Greg sighed as he sat his coffee cup down and ran his hands through his silver gray hair. “We all thought that he’d finally ended that relationship. I guess we were wrong.”

“Why do you think that this has started up again? Do you know of anything that has changed in his life?” John was racking his brain for answers.

“You. John. You entered his life and he’s a different fellow. Everyone knows you are a great influence. You’ve changed him in very subtle ways. Good ways.” Greg wanted John to know that.

“Bollocks. How did Sherrinford get shown the door the last time?” John could feel his anger rising.

“Six months of Re-hab that nearly killed everyone involved.” Greg admitted.

John stood and took a cleansing breath. “Thanks Greg. I will fix this.” He gave a tiny salute to his pub buddy, friend and the best Detective Inspector in the Yard as he turned to go.

“Luck on you, John.” Greg threw something at John. Which John deftly caught on the fly.

Looking at the pair of handcuffs in his hand, he smirked. “Hopefully, I won’t need these.” But he took them anyway.

(-_-)

Back at 221B, Sherlock is circling the sitting room. He’s trying to formulate a fool proof trap, but finding it not an easy task. Sherrinford isn’t any regular psychotic illusion. He is Sherlock’s psychotic illusion.

The front door opens and John bounds up the stairs two at at time. _So, he’s talked to Greg._ Sherlock thinks. _Is that good? Maybe so, maybe not._

John enters the open sitting room door. Closing it softly behind him and locking it. 

Sherlock’s eye brows lift slightly. “I take it that this is going to be a John Watson intervention?”

“Greg told me...” John placed his jacket on the door hook. Making his way to his chair.

“I know. It was something I always meant to speak to you about.” Sherlock admits.

“Now’s a good time. How can I help?” John is in full doctor mode. Empathetic, strong, humane. 

“Cognitively, I was approaching it as a solitary endeavor. Maybe a two pronged attack would be more advantageous.

“I’ve never considered myself a pronged attack.” John said, a whimsical smile on his face. “Whatever you need. I’m here for you.”

Sherlock preens at bit at that comment. John has such faith in him and he in John. It is an unusual feeling this caring lark. It makes all the difference in the world. To Sherlock’s world.

“We need to set a trap. I was going to use the Mind Palace. Maybe here in 221B would be better.” Sherlock sits in his chair directly opposite to John.

“So how does one trap an imaginary person?” John can hardly wait to hear Sherlock’s plan.

“First, I think you give them something they have always wanted.”

(-_-)

Preparations are made, the stage is set. 

Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed. Looking up at John, there is a storm of self loathing in his eyes.

“Don’t worry.” John soothes his riotous dark locks from his forehead. “We’ll make sure this ends now.”

“I’ve brought this upon us.” Sherlock places his hand over John’s. The friendship between them sparks to something deeper. “I trust you implicitly, John.”

They can both feel it. That easy transition from a loyalty to the beginnings of love. Sherlock’s eyes widen. Pupils dilating, large and dark against the ethereal grey/blue/gold of his tantalizing gaze.

“Hang on to that thought.” John says with anticipation in his voice. “We’ll explore this as soon as we’ve taken care of present business.”

Sherlock smiles. A winsome, boyish smile the melts John’s heart. 

(-_-)

Sherrinford comes to consciousness slowly. Opening heavy eyes, he views Sherlock’s bedroom. His right hand is above his head and he makes to move it. Only to find that he is handcuffed to the stout head board. Tugging at the cuff in frustration, Sherrinford growls in anger.

“Please, don’t hurt my friend.” John speaks from a comfortable chair to the left of Sherrinford.

Sherrinford comes to full realization of John’s presence. He sniffs. “So the good doctor is here to render aid. What is this about? Where is Sherlock?”

“It is my understanding that you are a part of Sherlock. So you can say he is here. With us.” John says conversationally.

Sherrinford yanks on the handcuff sharply then winces as the metal cuff bites into his wrist. 

John stands and heads toward the door. 

“Where the hell are you going?” Sherrinford demands.

“To get some ice for that wrist.” John say over his shoulder.

(-_-)

Sherlock is viewing the proceedings from the confines of the Mind Palace. He is and isn’t there with John. This is such a strange event. If he weren’t so upset about the possibility of what is going to transpire, he’d be leaping with joy at all the new data he’d have to catalog.

There is no joy. His relationship with John, his life, his continuance in the world is threatened by Sherrinford’s very existence. Why had he let things get out of control? Sherrinford had always been a distraction. An icon of depravity and decadence. An older brother who was on his side. Not Mycroft, who was and always will be a stodgy relic of pomposity.

John brought back a plastic bag of frozen peas, which he tries to hand to Sherrinford. Who promptly hurls it at the adjacent wall.

Sherlock can feel his right wrist begin to bruise and swell.

Sherrinford looks totally frustrated, when from his mouth the mellow word escapes. “John.” Sherrinford finds himself extending his left hand towards John. 

John retrieves the frozen peas and places it gingerly in the extended left hand. That hand moves the peas to wrap around the swelling wrist.

“Unbelievable.” Sherrinford grimaces from the cold. “Sherlock, I’ll not put up with this. I’m not going away any time soon.”

John goes back to his chair.

“So what, you are going to keep me here prisoner in Sherlock’s body?” Sherrinford is working up to a pissed state of being that would make even Mycroft blush.

“Well, actually. Right now Sherlock is doing a bit of experimentation. We’re in hopes of finding a permanent solution to your presence. In a few words. We want you gone.” John says emphatically.

Sherrinford falls back onto the soft surface of the bed and groans loudly.

“This can’t be happening!” Throwing his left arm over his eyes, Sherrinford begins trembling.

Sherlock is manipulating and maneuvering from within the Mind Palace. He is looking for the roots of his infamous imaginary friend. He wants to know what he is up against? What is Sherrinford?

Imaginary friend? Sherlock remembers the heart break at learning that Redbeard was no more. The utter betrayal of his family, trying to trick him into believing that the dog was safe, happy and healthy somewhere far away. Before his astute deduction.

Rooting around in the family archives. Finding the birth/death certificate of Sherrinford. Gone, but not forgotten. The older brother never to be seen or heard from. How sad is that? Juvenile Sherlock conjuring up the image of his ‘older’ brother. More like himself than Mycroft. More willing to cross all the lines; upsetting everyone.

Born of pain and frustration. Born of desire for revenge on those who would coddle him. Sherlock, in some respect was no child, but in reality, he was a breakable child. A lonely, grieving child. Sherrinford had been a good thing to begin with. What happened? When did he turn?

It was the drugs thing wasn’t it? It was then that it all went to shite. Sherrinford reveled in drugs. Found the high more and more addictive. His self destructive spiral more intense than Sherlock’s. Dragging Sherlock down with him. Sherrinford found freedom in the altered state. Whereas Sherlock found heightened senses and sharpening of the mind. Sherrinford was drawn to greater and greater usage. Addiction made him feel invincible. 

When John came into his life, everything changed for the better. More rarefied than any drug could ever be, John make him sharper, focused, human. Yes, John made him human and he didn’t want to go back to being anything else. 

(-_-)

Sherrinford turned his body so he was facing John more. His predatory smile widened. He let the peas fall and open his long legs. Watching to see how John would react. 

“You love a dash of danger, don’t you John?” Sherrinfords voice wasn’t quite as melodic as Sherlock’s.

“Yeah, I’ve been known to imbibe in an adrenaline rush now and then.” John states as he watches the floor show.

“You’ve never known danger like me.” Sherrinford runs his elegant long fingered hand down his immaculately suited body. “Sherlock’s never been as debauched or immoral in his life. I could take you places no one’s ever been. You wouldn’t even have to take the cuffs off. I’m that good at being bad.”

“I bet you really are. Not interested.” John crosses his legs, sinking comfortably into his chair. Tilting his head in a way that says he’s definitely not.

“Sherlock. This isn’t going to work.” Sherrinford talks to his alternate ego as he strains against the handcuffs . “You can’t get rid of me.” He looks at John dismissively. Raking his strong fingers across his face he leaves damaged, bruised skin behind.

“Stop that! Sherlock, I won’t stand by and let him hurt you.” John raises his voice as he stands and moves toward Sherrinford.

Sherrinford reaches for his groin as John body slams him into the bed. Grabbing Sherrinfords free hand, he pulls off his belt and secures him to the head board as he sits on his torso pinning him down.

“This only gets better and better.” Sherrinford laughs, his altered baritone voice echoing in the bedroom.

John is still straddling Sherrinford. He wants more than anything to smash this cruel, dark side of Sherlock in the face. Taking a deep cleansing breath he dismounts the darkness that looks like his best friend.

“Sherlock, you have to come out. I want to help. I don’t know what to do?”

Sherrinford goes slack, his eyes stare into space. John is at his side. This looks like an absence seizure. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” John is on the edge of frantic.

“I’m here John.” The tone of voice, the mellow baritone is back.

“Thank god. He was going to hurt you, I thought you were going to contain him? What happened?”

“Everything’s all ready. You performed perfectly. It’s only a matter of time now.


	3. The Man in the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a man in the mirror. A thorn in Sherlock's heart and John is the light, as always.

Sherlock sat on his bed. The wardrobe against the far wall was closed. The full length mirror inside shut away. John was tending to the bruised and torn skin on his face. Placing a clean dressing across the worst of it. Trashing the waste and latex gloves into the bin and closing his medical bag. The handsome leather case that Sherlock had purchase for him some months ago. 

“Well the good news is you’ll live.” John smiled at Sherlock. Sitting next to him, John placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. As their eyes meet, John can see the storm clouds in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Are you ready to continue?” Sherlock asked with concern. “We can wait a bit if you need time. These encounters are stressful.” 

“I’m fine. I won’t let anymore rough happen. That’s not on.”

Sherlock smiles warmly. “Affirmative.” He confirms and nods his head. 

John stands and walks over to the wardrobe and opens the door so that the mirror faces them both. Coming back to the bed, he sits close to Sherlock and placed his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock engulfs John’s smaller hand with his own. Their mingled warmth like a touchstone of safety and love.

“Sherrinford.” Sherlock commands. “Show yourself.”

The Belfast coat appears. The silhouette of Sherrinford becomes visible.

Sherlock spares a glance at John. His flatmate holds his hand firmly and looks with strength and courage into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I can see him, John. Hold on.”

John gives a quick nod.

 _{"So there you are. I thought you’d had enough of me?”}_ Sherrinford turns and sneers. _{“Ah, the lovebirds in their little nest. How quaint.”}_

“This is the last of your involvement in my life, Sherrinford. This is your final presentation.”

Sherrinford sniffs. _{“How do you figure that consulting mastermind? You have no control over me. I’m...”}_

“Little more than a strong compulsion that was never really essential. A child’s way of coping or maybe not coping. I’m not a child anymore.”

 _{“No, you’re the addict. The sociopath. The loner filled with an acid tongue and no sense of care for any human being.”}_ Sherrinford spits out. 

Sherlock can feel John eyes on him. The strong, warm hand on his thigh that is a caress and promise of a future he never thought he would ever know.

“You’ve never been more wrong. You’ve been a thorn in my heart for as long as I can remember. No more.” 

Sherrinford laughs. A madman’s cackle. _{You think words are going to hurt me? Make me run away like some dime store romance novel baddie? The villain cast out with a virulent curse?”}_

“I think you will find it hard to stay. I think you will be moved by something you’ve never known. Which I could never give you. Yes, I admired you. Emulated you. Thought the world of you, but I never loved you. Not as a brother should love his older brother. That is where I went wrong. You were born in the miasma of my tortured heart and there you have lived your whole life. Adding drugs to the mix only made you more volatile, unstable and self destructive.”

 _{“So your love is going to save me?”}_ Sherrinford spits out. _{“Your love is going to make me leave my home”}_

“Not my love. I’ve never been acquainted with love before. I’ve never desired. Finding my joy in murder and mayhem. My love is a fragile thing. Too weak, to unformed to be of use here.”

Sherlock pauses here and looks to John. Brilliant, brave, exciting and never boring, John. Like the blinding radiance of a lighthouse in the raging storm. “His love is like no other. He loves me unconditionally. His love is stronger than any wretchedness that you can provoke.”

Sherrinford looks a bit miffed. _{“You can’t really mean that? You will always need my danger, my anger, my disdain. You will always need me.”}_ There is a catch in Sherrinford’s throat. It’s as if his energy and strength are ebbing away.

_{“You can’t do this to me. I’ve always been there for you. John, tell him to listen to me.”}_

“John can’t hear you. You are just a memory. A bloody nightmare that needs to end now.” Sherlock stands and moves toward the wardrobe. Holding tightly to John’s hand. John always and forever at his side.

“There is no place for you here anymore. You died a long time ago. You were loved. Your ashes are in a tiny urn that rests in a mausoleum upon the Holmes ancestral estate. You were never real. Though I know you wanted to be. You were never loved by me. I regret that. John and I love you now. So find your way. Whatever path you need to travel, go home. Rest at last, knowing that you have our love.”

Sherrinford looked gobsmacked. His visage was pale. His time, he knew, was ending.

John turned to the mirror. “Be not afraid of the shadows. Touch not the ice or the snow. The winter, at last, has ended. The summer fields beckon you home.” Touching the mirror. His warm hand fogged the cold glass. 

“He’s gone.” Sherlock said with finality. 

John took a deep breath and pulled Sherlock into a loving embrace that Sherlock knew would never end. 

“John, I think you should remove your clothing.” Sherlock admonished him.

“Really, and why would I do that? Hmm?”

“Well, if you take off your clothes, I’ll take off mine. It is getting rather hot in here don’t you think?”

“Is he really gone?” John needs a bit of convincing. 

“Yes, I feel my heart is whole for the first time in a long time. The thorn is gone. The pain is gone. There’s a huge plaster on my heart. It has writing on it. It says the love of John Watson resides within, no room for anyone else.”

John started to pull his jumper up and over his head. “I guess I do feel warm all over.” Pulling down his pants and briefs. “Come over here Sherlock, feel how hot I am.”


End file.
